


Fallin'

by JamesJoints



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Fluff, Love/Hate, M/M, Sexual Content, THAT semi-final, Wimbledon 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesJoints/pseuds/JamesJoints
Summary: Rafael Nadal has 17 Grand Slam Titles. He's trying to catch Roger.





	Fallin'

Novak does well not to celebrate wildly as his shot flies wide, Rafa thinks as he trods towards the net, does well not to scream for joy, scream at the fact that his hands were now virtually caressing the Wimbledon trophy, his comeback cemented, his doubters silenced. Only Anderson could stop him. Everyone knew he wouldn’t. Instead, Novak shrugged at the net, his hair darker under the roof on centre court, his hand sweaty in Rafa’s whose was probably worst.

‘Could have gone either way, man.’ Novak is just about audible underneath the rapturous applause, the crowd on their feet after over five hours played.

Rafa nods, feeling weird. Not upset because he isn’t, it wasn’t like he played badly, he played well. Better than well, even. He felt amazing, great, powerful like he was 10 years younger. It was weird to lose when you had played your best, he wasn’t used to it. ‘Grand Slam Thirteen tomorrow, no?’’ he responds mustering a tired smile.

Novak smiles tiredly back, muttering something about Kevin being no walkover but his eyes, his eyes flecked with specs of gold say otherwise. He is confident.

Whilst Novak got a lot of flack from crowds and media for being too confident that it verged on arrogance, Rafa himself was exactly the same though perhaps more subtle in the ways he showed it. . Roger was no different, he oozed it, Rafa always felt he could see the trail of confidence he left in his wake whenever he walked onto any court, a quiet charming arrogance that preyed upon him.

Arrogance wasn’t the sign of a person that was classless, no, it was the sign of someone who had _achieved_ and Rafa had no idea why this trait was viewed as displeasing and unlikeable. His encounter with Novak at the net ended with a pat on the back and he shook the umpire’s hand before gathering his stuff.

 

\-------

He sat for thirty minutes extra in the changing room even after he’d showered, scrolling through his phone. Their match had been trending on Twitter, outpours of praise at the quality of the rallies, many quick to coin it as one of the best ever. And all Rafa could think about were those break points at 7 all. Upon further reflection, he felt less and less pleased with his performance. He hadn't played badly, just hadn’t played good enough in those poignant moments. _That one_ moment. The passing shot by Novak racing past him mockingly, desperately out of reach. He was never going to win after that.

 Rafa goes towards the mirror,  slightly smattered with dirt but still his tanned self looks back blankly, hair curling limply- still wet- eyebrows finding some way to raise themselves, he looks unsure, _weak._

He thinks of Roger’s eyebrows, always set, always sure, even when he loses, so self assured, so _handsome,_ so annoyingly better than him. He studies himself, wondering if he’ll ever catch 20. With Novak suddenly back from the ashes, the difficulty of everything has risen like skyscrapers.

It makes him slightly worried that his first loss in a while suddenly makes him doubt himself greatly. He’s _number one_ for God’s sake, he must be doing _something_ right, he won the French, but upon second thought he wonders how impressive that is now, that trophy is his bread and butter.

His phone rings, and he approaches cautiously thinking it was Uncle Tony to berate him and then discovering it was his good friend Serena.

’Grass is your worst surface and you got to the semis.’ are her first words, accompanied by the easy laugh she’s had all tournament. He can instantly hear Olympia babbling in the background.

‘Er-what?’ he says belatedly.

‘I know you’re beating yourself up, Rafa.’ Serena states, her voice soft and warm. ‘But remember that.’

He hums, head whirling with her words. She wasn’t wrong. But as soon as Fed went out, everyone’s eyes had turned towards him, the BBC’s Sue Barker claiming that _surely_ this was Rafael Nadal’s Wimbledon to lose. And lose it he had.

Rafa sighs. ‘ _Anderson_ in the final.’ he stresses. ' _Anderson_ . This should have been slam 18. I have to catch _him_. And now Novak’s back.’

‘Is your career based on Federer or yourself?’ Serena questions over an increasingly louder Olympia who laughs away to herself in the background. ‘I think you’re letting this thing get to you too much. If you catch him; great, that’s fantastic. If you don’t; _still_ great and _still_ fantastic. You’re one of the greatest ever and no one can take that away regardless. Stop stressing.’

Rafa rolls his eyes at her easy tone. Happiness comes so easy to her. She was happily married, a happy mother and a happy Wimbledon finalist. In blinding contrast, Rafa was miserably single, had no  kids running around anywhere and was not a Wimbledon finalist. He hasn’t been since 2011. Against Novak.

‘I’m going back to my hotel.’ he says , ending the call.

He exits the changing room, and walks straight out of the building swarmed immediately  by security that appear out of nowhere to barge off the fans who scream at the sight of him. He makes eye contact with a boy of about 16 and the boy asks ‘How hard is it to catch 20?’ and that’s enough for him to speed up to his car, swearing colourfully in Spanish and driving off in a storm to his hotel near the grounds. His exit wouldn’t go down too well with the  English media, he knew for sure. They would jump on anything, waiting for a slip up like predators. Now a chink in the Rafael Nadal armour. The humble Spaniard not so humble in defeat, rude, or they’d rather use the word _arrogant_ probably.

In the room of his hotel, an episode of _Today at Wimbledon_ plays and Sue Barker presents it with a friendly smile. Rafa knows he should change the channel. Doesn’t. Prepares his dinner with her voice running in the background as commentary.

‘The day began with the completion of the men’s semi final, Novak Djokovic against Rafael Nadal. A clash of titans. Novak looking to comeback to his best, Rafa looking to hunt down Roger.’

The highlights ran and Rafa tortured himself by watching, heart lurching with every miss he made in important points. Then, _that_ point. Novak makes a miracle passing forehand cornered by the tv version of himself. The crowd gasps and erupts like thousands of volcanoes. Novak gestures with his hands and the noise rises even louder. _Deuce_.

His phone buzzes. Roger.

When Serena had first heard that they had each other’s numbers after an exclusive dinner party she had raised her freshly done eyebrows dubiously and Rafa had flushed claiming that it wasn’t like he was _friends_ with a rival, it wasn’t like they texted often at all. He also had Novak’s number and they scarcely talked. Serena had laughed and placed a drink to her lips muttering something about never wanting to have Maria’s phone number poisoning her phone.

His phone buzzes again.

_hey._

_you know we’re staying in the same hotel?_

Rafa raises an eyebrow, surprised. This hotel was only 4 stars, he had booked it last minute. But Roger was known for only staying at the best of the best, after his loss to Wawrinka years ago had been the result of  food poisoning from some hotel’s restaurant.

He had seen Angelique a few floors down, and Marin at breakfast in the dining room. And now Roger was here as well.

 _I didn’t know._ He responds. He didn't know how to feel about it. He imagined Roger and his 20 grand slams next door to him, freely fucking some girl into the bedsheets now that he and Mirka weren’t together anymore. The nameless girl would moan that he was the greatest of all time and Federer would fuck her harder.

Or, he thought, he imagined Roger and his 20 grand slam self in the room above him on the balcony, staring below at the streets of London, smiling quietly at the news that Nadal had been knocked out, smiling quietly at the fact that surely his 20 grand slam count would not be threatened.

Imagined Roger and pictures with each of his 20 grand slam victories on the floor below him, deliberating over his favourite one, which of the the 8 Wimbledon titles and 6 Australian Opens among the others. Imagined Roger wondering if there was space for more. To rub salt into Rafa’s wounds and somehow get his 21st whilst he remained on 17. To cement his place as the greatest ever.

Rafa dumped his soggy food on the table in front of him plagued with strange images and there was a knock on his door soon after. He immediately thought it was room service as they had been randomly showing up the past fortnight, desperately eager to help.

He opened the door and said ‘I didn’t order room service.’

But room service wasn’t in front of him. Federer was. Tall and poised in a royal blue t-shirt and jogging bottoms, brown signature slicked hairstyle stood proudly, cool brown eyes momentarily staring at Rafa’s feet where he had put on socks of different colours (red and blue ). The distraction allowed Rafa to stare at the length of his throat, his white teeth that nibbled at his lips, his eyebrows that were, of course, set and assured. Confidence was practically a scent on Roger, his hands tucked cooly into the pocket of his trackies.

‘Room service?’’ Roger repeated. ‘I look that bad, huh.’

He hadn’t seen Roger since passing him at the grounds when he had been knocked out to Kevin, and a blatant heaviness had been present in his walk. Their meeting had been brief, just Rafa flashing a fleeting smile, inside bursting with happiness at the time that Roger had been knocked out, that he would have a chance to catch him.

And now here they were again, but Rafa was out too. They were both losers but Roger always felt like the winner, no matter what.

‘Why are you here?’ Rafa asked, ignoring his joke. ‘I mean, how did you know _I’m_ here?’

‘Thought pretty boys were supposed to be dumb.’ Roger mutters, eyes glancing up from the floor.

They stare at each other for a moment, Rafa not sure how to take that comment before he sniffs and looks away, looks down the corridor. It’s empty and cool air graces his skin.  ‘Good thing I’m not pretty, then.’

Roger is quiet for a short moment before he asks to come in. Rafa ponders on the pros and cons of that happening. The pros being he could attempt to drug him and get him to tell the secrets of 20, make him swear to always lose to him, ask him if he’s even scared of Rafa catching him at all. The cons being-

Roger takes a step forward. A step that tells him, he is _going to_ come inside.  And that should have been a con really, Roger’s ability to get whatever he wanted, whatever that was.

Rafa steps back begrudgingly and Roger strolls in, _Today at Wimbledon_ still playing. The final points of the match. 8-9 with him serving.

Roger scrutinises his bowl of dinner. ‘What is that?’

‘Pulpo a la gallega.’ Rafa answers, the language rolling off his tongue easily.

Roger laughs quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’ He takes a seat on the couch, stretching his legs comfortably, his blue shirt riding up slightly revealing his tanned skin.

‘Thought you were quite good with languages.’ Rafa stands nearby, arms folded, leant against the wall. Eyes flicking towards the match. 0-30.  

‘I can speak the language of tennis pretty well.’ Roger places his arms behind his head. Cocky bastard. ‘Although some miscommunications this week. What I’m trying to say is; I get how you feel.’

Rafa thoroughly disagreed with the latter, thought Roger didn't _get_ anything. He already had it all. He wasn’t trying to catch anyone, just trying to extend his records. When he lost he walked off the court with his 20 grand slams intact and the world at his feet, but when Rafa lost he walked off the court still chasing the greatest ever.  What was there for Roger to be disappointed about?

Roger eyed him. Maybe he could see Rafa’s brain whirling, his face always revealed everything anyways.  ‘At least you lost to Novak. I lost to Kevin. I had a _match point._ I was two sets up..’

’You have 20 slams.’  Rafa couldn’t help but spit out. Even to his own ears he sounded blatantly jealous.

Roger lapsed into quietness once again. This seemed to be a pattern in their conversation. Rafa would say something erratic, Roger would organise his thoughts amongst himself and move on smoothly. The Maestro, as the media had labelled him.

They both stared at the screen, his shot going wide, him meeting Novak at the net in an exchange which appeared short but had felt so much longer.

He suddenly felt embarrassed. Federer with his 8 titles from SW19 watching him lose, not winning it since 2010. Only 2 titles anyways.

‘You’re angry.’ Roger stated. It wasn’t phrased as a question and he didn’t even glance at Rafa.

‘Am I supposed to be happy after a loss?’ Rafa demanded, easily irritated as thoughts of 20 preyed upon him and would for the rest of the week. And if he never caught Roger Wimbledon 2018 would haunt him for the rest of his life. _Anderson._

‘It’s more than losing the match, though, isn’t it?’ Roger finally looks at him, hazel eyes patient the way Rafa’s never were. His shirt rides up even more and Rafa hates himself as he notices and doesn’t look away. ‘It’s losing number 18. You’re desperate to catch up to me.’

It was hard to decipher whether Roger felt amused, annoyed or sympathetic after saying this. But then Roger laughed and it pricked something dark inside Rafa and he pushed away from the wall. ‘G _et out.'_  His voice verged on animalistic.

Roger’s laugh died prematurely in his throat and he stared at him in confusion, confused as Rafa grabbed his arm and steered him towards the door. Roger stopped almost rooting himself to the ground. ‘Rafa, what the hell?’

‘You turn up _uninvited_ , sit in my room as if you come here regularly and then laugh right in my face and you’re asking me what the hell?’’ Rafa is seething, nails digging into Roger’s arm. He hopes he leaves marks. Sometimes he hates Roger. Sometimes he envies him so badly. Sometimes he feels something else.

‘Laugh in your face?’’ Roger repeats. He sounds like a dumb parrot.  ‘Rafa.’

Rafa also thinks he hates the way Roger says his name, as if they aren’t rivals, as if they haven’t been compared the whole of their careers, as if they’re.. _friends._

‘’Is your English bad also? Get out.’’ Rafa opens the door in one quick, hurried motion.

‘’Stop being unreasonable.’’

‘’I’m not being unreasonable!’’ Rafa yelled, realizing belatedly that perhaps he was being slightly unreasonable by not allowing Roger to explain but what else was there left to say? It was clear what Roger thought of him. Clear he thought Rafa had no chance of catching him. He probably laughed when people compared them or called them rivals. Perhaps Djokovic was his greater rival.

A guest staying across the hall left her room at that exact moment, pausing when she saw the scene of Rafa dragging a stubborn Roger out of his hotel room an hour before midnight, Rafa mid yell and Roger mid calmy spoken sentence. A picture of contradictions. ‘Oh.’ she said, clearly caught off guard. She was cute. Small petite, long black hair that reached her waist, wide green eyes. Roger probably liked her, he thought. ‘Is everything alright?’’ the woman asked cautiously.

‘Just a misunderstanding.’ Roger answered as smoothly as ever. He ran a hand through his hair and smiled easily. Self assured.

Rafa could tell the woman was impressed, she smiled back at Roger. ‘I’m not the biggest fan of tennis, but I think I know who you are.’

‘’Oh really?’’ Roger replied, folding his arms looking as comfortable as if he’d known her for ages.

‘Yes.’ the woman giggles slightly. ‘You’re quite popular. I’m actually kind of flattered to run into you Mr Roger Federer.’

‘ _Mr Roger Federer_.’ Roger repeated with a laugh. ‘I feel like I’m back at Wimbledon.’

And Rafa couldn’t watch the scene any longer. Couldn’t watch this woman recognize him but fail to even glance in Rafa’s direction, fail to recognize the world number one and owner of 17 grand slams. He couldn’t watch Federer sprinkle his charm on yet another person, he couldn’t stand the way this evoked some sort of resentment towards the woman just because she was the focus of his attention. His glorious, _20 time_ grand slam attention.

He retreated into the room and shut the door before Roger could react and leant back against it, sliding down towards the grey carpet. He heard Roger call his name then the murmur of the female’s voice followed again by Roger’s.

‘’Raf.’’ Roger was knocking incessantly on the door.

Rafa closed his eyes and realised with a sinking feeling that it wasn’t normal to feel this obsessed about grand slam counts and so he concluded, with yet another sinking feeling that it wasn’t  even the grand slams of Roger that he wanted to catch up to, It was Roger himself. From his popularity to his looks to his charm, his easy confidence, his self-assurance, his ability to control himself - like right then, Rafa would have been kicking the door down- He’d never felt quite good enough for Roger. Even from all their matches all those years ago, even when Rafa had won he’d felt like he’d lost because the crowd never chanted his name like that, never supported him so fiercely their lungs ached, and Roger never looked at him with any respect. It was almost an _I let you win_ look that made him feel like shit, always had.

Wimbledon 2018 had been his chance to feel better than Roger for once, him in the decline and Rafa on the ascendency, to claim 18 and be close to _Roger’s_ level. To finally make Roger look him in the eye like he was something to be feared and not something to be pitied or amused by. To know that he could be part of the GOAT conversation if he could win on his worst surface, to stop the claims of him being a one surface wonder.

But he had failed. 20 > 17\. Roger > Rafa.

He was aware of Roger speaking still somehow not having raised his voice. ‘You’re making me look crazy, Rafa.’ He said. His voice sounded distant but close. Right next to Rafa’s eardrums but separated by a door. ‘At least tell me why you’re angry then I’ll leave.’

‘You laughed.’ Rafa spoke numbly, his realisations dampening the tone of his voice.

Roger paused. ‘At what?’

‘At me trying to catch you. Your slam total.’  _Trying to catch up to you._

Roger sighed in what appeared to be out of relief. ‘I wasn’t laughing at that.’’ he begins. ‘I was laughing at the irony of it all. You trying to catch me when I’m trying to catch you.’

Rafa sat up from his side. ‘What?’

‘Open the door.’

So Rafa did, desperate for him to continue. Roger surged in and pinned him against the couch by his shoulders. Rafa blinked up at him, surprised then breathless as Roger’s hands travelled up his arms towards his own hands, linking their fingers together like vines amongst a tree. Rafa didn’t even flinch but inside his heart was beating fit to burst.

‘I-Wh-’ Rafa stumbled over his words.

‘You’re such an idiot.’ Roger said calmly and Rafa couldn’t even find it in himself to disagree. He _was_ an idiot, an idiot for his skin feeling like it was on fire just because Roger was touching him. ‘I’ve been trying to catch you for years, Rafa. Why do you think I broke up with Mirka?’

Roger was looking at him with a smile, it was the same way he’d smiled at the woman but just _more._ Rafa wasn’t even sure he could answer the question. Roger was on page 20 and Rafa was still on the opening line. Since when did Roger like him? It had always been a carefully distanced coolness whenever else they’d met, nothing that suggested flirting.

‘You must be pretty shit at flirting.’ is all Rafa can say and the corners of Roger’s lips turn upwards. ‘Because I didn’t know.’

‘Need to make myself more obvious, I guess.’ Roger says, running a hand through Rafa’s hair. ‘As obvious as you.’

Rafa’s face drops. ‘Obvious?’

Roger laughs. ‘You’ve been staring at me the whole time I’ve been here.’

Rafa cringes and closes his eyes. _How embarrassing._ He thinks of Roger noticing, feeling smug and waiting until a time where he could bring it up.

‘I didn’t say it was a bad thing.' Roger say kissing his neck, Rafa breathes in sharply. ‘I like feeling wanted.. Know what I mean?’

Rafa nods and Roger drags a hand slowly down to between his legs and Rafa can only bury his face in his neck, embarrassed at his raging erection and even more embarrassed when he whines as Roger brushes his fingers against it.

‘Can tell you want me.’ Roger says lowly but loud enough that Rafa can’t even hear _Today at Wimbledon_ anymore, can only smell, feel, hear and see Roger, pulls him even closer, crazily feels himself letting go. ‘Want you to say it.’ Roger presses his forehead against his, staring at him rawly, their noses brushing, eyes locked.

Even in the comfort of the hotel room, away from the grounds of Wimbledon, even pressed so close together, Rafa can’t tell where his body ends, _even now_ it feels like a competition. Like saying the truth would give Roger some kind of advantage over him, some sort of victory, would make Rafa some sort of loser.

But Rafa is hard, feels his heart threatening to break his rib-cage, his legs are wrapped around Roger’s back like he wants to trap him and he feels like he’s already lost. _He’s already lost_. Roger has won and it’s the first time Rafa is happy about it. He wants Roger to win like this all the time.

‘Want you.’ he whispers, admitting defeat. ‘I want you so bad.’ He can’t speak anymore because Roger is kissing him slowly and Rafa doesn’t feel like a loser at all as their legs tangled together and so do their tongues, their hands and maybe, so do their hearts.

He doesn’t feel like a loser when he sees Roger wrecked, stupid gorgeous hair dishevelled and wondrously out of place, doesn’t feel like a loser when Roger comes inside of him with a low groan, biting at his shoulder. Doesn’t feel like a loser when he’s lying on the couch later, and Roger is staring at him with bliss, hands roaming over Rafa’s arse and smirking everytime their eyes meet.

\------

When Rafa awakes, he feels the world is calm.

Somewhere an insane man with a lethal gun doesn’t shoot and a group of robbers place down their stolen belongings with remorse. Somewhere else a country in the middle east isn’t maliciously bombed and a woman does her daily early morning yoga with a smile on her face.

In a hotel room near the grounds of Wimbledon, Rafael Nadal _awakes_ and feels the world is calm because _he_ is calm. For once he doesn’t wake up and think _20,_ he wakes up and thinks that he can’t wait for the day ahead. He breathes in deeply and rolls over to his left only slightly disappointed to find this side of the bed empty.

He lies for a moment, breathing the scent of him in before getting up completely and stretching. His body aches in the most wonderful way, and he glances at the clock sat unassumingly on top of one of the drawers. It’s almost noon and the lazy sun outside confirms that.

After having a shower, he strolls towards the living room, scratching at his stomach and spots Federer’s brown curls peeking out from behind the couch. The TV flickers with images of the build up to the men’s final.

 _The Men’s Final,_ he thinks, waiting for the feeling of annoyance that he isn’t part of it but it never comes. There was always the next 3 slams, he thinks. With a clearer mind,  he realises how ridiculous he had been. Maybe he had just needed a good fuck to sort things out in his head. But even as he thinks so, he knows that that was more than just a good fuck.  

Grinning, Rafa attempts to sneak up on him, climbing on his back from behind to which Roger makes a sound of surprise which is quickly followed  by _stupid bastard_ and a warm kiss to his neck, then his cheek then they are full on kissing, Roger tasting like mint and Rafa finding his fingers in Roger’s curls and holding on tightly.

When they pull apart, Roger tells him that he’s going to get breakfast for them both and Rafa mumbles something about a bagel and then Roger is leaving and Rafa feels _calm_ . Strangely calm. It all feels too natural, too _normal_ and in a way it scares him.

He grabs his phone and sends Novak a text wishing him luck, thinking that Novak wouldn’t reply until later but then his phone is ringing and its Novak, the silly picture Rafa has of him with his tongue stuck out flashing on the screen.

‘ _Rafa._ ’ Novak says in way of greeting and Rafa walks out to the balcony so he can hear him better, the slight breeze nipping at his skin. Looking down, he sees the other guests at the hotel chatting amongst themselves, some conversations drifting towards tennis.

‘Are you sure you have a final in less than two hours?’ Rafa wonders with a laugh. He imagines himself before finals, agitated and irritable, snapping at anyone who so as dared to breathe around him. And then he thinks of Novak on the other end sounding so relaxed.

‘I was just playing marbles, actually.’ Novak proclaims casually. ‘But then I thought talking to you might be a bit more fun.’

Rafa shakes his head, curls brushing at his cheek. ‘You’re _crazy.’’_ and Novak laughs. ‘But seriously, I wish you the best. Number 13.’

‘I feel a bit bad talking to you now.’ The younger man admitted and Rafa leaned against the railing and waited for him to continue. ‘I know you wanted to be here.’

Rafa shrugs, then remembered that he was having a phone call. ‘As they say, it is what it is, no? You deserve it more than me.’

‘I know you wanted to catch Roger.’ Novak says carefully, voice almost hesitant like he was touching uncharted territory.

In a way he was. All the other players knew on tour exactly what his goal was but it was never said out loud, the constant elephant in the room. But overnight things had changed. Did he still want to catch Roger’s slam count? Of course. But the need was different now, it didn’t prey upon him for twenty four hours a day and haunt his dreams, it was a more of a suppressed goal and he realised that it didn’t mean as much to him as he initially thought it had.

And the night with Roger had  completely shamelessly charmed him and he almost felt... happy, _proud,_ even when people discussed Roger as the greatest ever, marvelled at his 20 grand slams because despite all of his plaudits Rafa knew that Roger liked him ..a lot, maybe even more than a lot. And despite his lack of emotion on court, off it he was.. _lovely._ There was no over way to put it, no other way to soften the blow. Rafa didn’t care what his slam count was, as long as he woke up with Roger next to him and as long as Roger kissed him like the world was ending-he didn’t _care_ and the realisation shook him to the core such that he was silent for a while.

’I already did.’ he says finally. Then it is Novak who is suspiciously quiet and Rafa can almost see the confusion on his face, decides to let him work it out for himself, decides to hang up. ‘Good luck, Novak.’

He goes back inside and sees Roger sprawled out against the couch in that cocky way of his but Rafa loved Roger’s cock..iness. Roger glances up at him with a cool gaze that prickles at his skin and tosses a bagel in his direction. ‘Thought you’d ran away or something.’

Rafa laughs at the idea of him running away from something, some _one_ like Roger. ‘’I couldn’t even if I wanted to.’’ he responds taking a bite of the glazed bagel and sitting in between Roger’s legs which pull him in closer.

‘So I’ve got Rafael Nadal hostage?’

He shrugs and doesn’t answer, but thinks _yes, yes you bastard._

They watch the Wimbledon Final some hours later and Novak wins comfortably, his reaction strangely subdued for someone who was known for his iconic celebrations. Kevin is a good loser and has nothing but praise for Novak and his team who returns the gesture and it’s so very friendly and _nice._ Almost as if Kevin had walked onto Centre Court the runner-up, his fate predestined already.

He watches Novak lift his fourth Wimbledon title with a strange sort of satisfaction.

Him and Roger spend the whole day floating about in each other’s company, going to dinner together, ignoring the occasional stare and Rafa desperately trying to ignore the way he feels when Roger looks at him from across the table with a dark lidded gaze made golden under the yellow lights of the room.

‘We should probably talk about this.’ Roger says after a while, his fork scraping against the edge of his plate, his fingers long, tanned and elegant, whether they were wrapped around a tennis racket or a fork or tangled in Rafa’s hair.

 _This_ referred to the unlabelled ... _thing_ between them that consisted of lots of physical endeavours and shameless flirting and.. _looks_ , there was lots of that, so different to the looks they gave each other from opposite sides of the net, so much more intimate.

In all honesty, Rafa didn’t want to _talk_ about anything even though this was obviously the sensible adult thing to do, talking about it would mean he would have to admit out loud that he actually wanted to maybe kind of be with Roger in a romantic relationship type of way that went against all his supposed hate for the man which he knew now had never been hate at all, nowhere even close.

A waitress appeared at their table then with flushed cheeks and asked if they needed anything else and Roger had smiled dazzlingly and had said _no_ , that she had done more than enough, that he wished more waitresses would work as well as her and her cheeks had flushed an even brighter red. The girl went to another table with a small smile on her face and Rafa rolled his eyes. ‘Always the charmer.’ he said and Roger had raised an eyebrow, had leaned forward in his seat, his fork still tapping at his plate.'Does it make you jealous?’

Rafa stared right back. ‘Is it supposed to?’

Roger had shrugged and glanced away briefly before glancing back. ‘I don’t know.’ he answers honestly. ‘I don’t know a lot of things.’ he adds. ‘I came to your room and I didn’t even know _why._ But then I saw the way you were looking at me.’ He trails off and Rafa huffs a curl out of his face, slightly embarrassed.

‘I’m sure a lot of people look at you like that.’ Rafa said softly. Even Serena, who was happily married had complimented his looks on one of the many times he had graced the front cover of a magazine. It had to be a fact, Rafa thought, universally acknowledged that Roger Federer was one of the most gorgeous human beings alive.

‘But it didn’t mean anything when they did.’

And whilst Rafa wasn’t the best with English, he knew _exactly_ what that meant, what that implied. There was no need to read between the lines, beneath the surface. Roger gazed at him earnestly and Rafa held his breath, then breathed out, slowly. ‘I - don’t know what to say.’

Roger laughed quietly. ‘I do.’ and he stood up from his chair in all his six foot glory, called for the bill with one hand and gestured to Rafa with the other. ‘Let’s go back to your room.’

\-------

They lay together under the blue duvet covers, beautifully naked and reeking of sweat and sex. The room was dark, a quiet coolness in the air from an open window, the hushed sounds of their souls lingered and Rafa closed his eyes as Roger’s hands, _those fingers_ , wandered achingly over his cock.

Rafa had had many sexual exploits with people over the years, many rushed affairs in bathroom stalls and backseats of cars but Roger touched him like they had all the time in the world, like the sun would never rise the next day, like they could stay cooped up in this bed forever.

And Rafa almost believed it as he rocked up into Roger’s hands groaning softly, his fingers reaching out and grabbing at the bed, pleasure building up slowly inside like a wave across the horizon, drawing closer and closer.

And as Roger kissed him lazily, the words that he couldn’t find before at dinner appeared like headlights in his brain, flashing bright, blinking red. It was so simple. So _achingly_ simple that it was almost embarrassing. They had said everything but one thing.

Rafa pulled back and opened his eyes. Their noses brushed almost instinctively and Roger grinned, his hands still teasing him, and the words in Rafa’s head glowed brighter, screamed.

‘I want you to go out with me.’ Rafa told him, one hand pushing Roger’s hair back from his face so he could see his reaction properly. Despite it all he felt slightly nervous at putting himself forward so boldly.

Roger smirked at him and didn’t say anything but his hands dragged along Rafa’s cock with such intensity that he couldn’t help but moan, his eyes rolling back as he felt himself close to the edge and then he suddenly he was falling, coming with a gasp and a shudder, heart beating quickly.

‘You look so beautiful when you come.' Roger whispered against his lips. Rafa felt his cheeks heat but then Roger was speaking again. ‘And I will.’

‘Yeah?’ He couldn’t help but smile, half out of relief, half out of his blissed out post-orgasm state.

‘ _Yes.’_

And so Rafa didn’t _need_ to catch Roger. He already had. He was _right here_.

**Author's Note:**

> The tennis fandom is amazing and i want to be one of those who contribute so if anyone has any specific ships/prompts that they want me to write, I will 100% consider everything. I just love writing about tennis players lol. Even if the ship is unorthodox don't be afraid to tell me. Can't wait for the US open (Im a djokovic fan so CMON NOVAK)


End file.
